He plunged forward, and executed a series of diving evolutions.
“Dod—come out of the pond! Its dead—didn’t you hear me shoot?” said Sneak, who had by this time paddled a little canoe in which he had been seated to the shore. But Joe continued his exercises, his crushed hat not only depriving him of sight, but rendering him deaf to the laughter that burst from Glenn and Sneak. Sneak ran round to the opposite side of the lake to a point that Joe was approaching, (though all unconscious of his destination,) and remained there till the poor fellow pushed his half-submerged head against the grass, when he seized him furiously and bore him a few paces from the water, in spite of his cries and struggles.
“I ain’t the painter!” said Sneak, at length weary of the illusion, and dragging Joe’s hat from his head.
“Ha! hang it! ha!” cried Joe, staring at Sneak and Glenn in bewilderment. “Where is it?” he cried, when in some degree recovered from his great perturbation.
“Didn’t you hear me shoot? Of course its dead!” replied Sneak.
“Which do you prefer, Joe, ducking or fishing?” asked Glenn.
“I never saw a feller duck his head so,” said Sneak.
“Ha! ha! ha! you thought I was frightened, and trying to get away from the panther! But you were much mistaken. I was chasing a muskrat—I got wet in the river, and was determined to see—”
“You couldn’t see your own nose!” interrupted Sneak.